


I Liked My College Frat Parties Way More Than This

by fab_ia



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Drinking, Gen, Mandatory Holiday Parties, aka nobody wants to be here and they arent afraid to show it, canon-typical threats of violence, holiday party fic, late night food with coworkers, yknow the usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:40:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28329132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fab_ia/pseuds/fab_ia
Summary: '“You know,” Jacobi says, “I really do hate holiday parties."“Hey, Major,” Maxwell says as she nods towards the door, “can we bounce?”'-- Plus, $100 suit jackets, the tragedy of gruyere, four-and-a-half types of dessert, and something entirely unavoidable.
Relationships: Daniel Jacobi & Warren Kepler & Alana Maxwell
Comments: 11
Kudos: 44





	I Liked My College Frat Parties Way More Than This

“You know,” Jacobi says, swirling the wine in his glass until it half-resembles a whirlpool as he eyes the other groups around the edges of the room, “I really do hate holiday parties. I think that was the only thing I wasn’t lying about, earlier.”

Beside him, Maxwell makes a noise of agreement, surreptitiously making an attempt to listen into the conversation of the people to their left who, as near as Jacobi can tell, are discussing Goddard’s latest investment into an up-and-coming tech company that he only has a passing interest in. His own interests are far more skewed towards chemistry and physics, while Maxwell enjoys whatever new gadgets are on the rise. Kepler, somehow, knows a little about it all. 

_Think of the devil,_ Jacobi says to himself, noting Kepler with a glass of his own in hand, looking suitably interested in whatever the HR director is talking about although to Jacobi – and Maxwell, likely, since they’ve both learnt his subtle tells fairly well – that he’s bored as all hell. Idly, taking a sip, he wonders if there’s any need for a noble rescue, when Kepler raises a hand, says something Jacobi assumes is an excuse, before he makes his way over to his two subordinates.

“Evening,” Kepler says, and takes a long drink from his glass. “How are the two of you finding the party? Jacobi? Maxwell?”

“Well,” Maxwell says, “I wish I was wearing pants.”

“Wait,” Jacobi says, “why didn’t you? Why _did_ you decide to wear a dress?”

“Gibson in R&D told me it looked the most festive,” she says, screwing up her nose as she looks down at her outfit. “Pretty damn ugly though, right? I think he just wanted me to look like a dick in front of, uh, everyone.”

Jacobi sighs. Kepler pulls a face and eyes the two of them for a moment before nodding, almost unconsciously, looking back up and around the room. It’s a normal thing, to them, keeping an eye on their surroundings, on the people around them, _just in case._ It’s become a habit largely because Kepler gives them a _look_ if he thinks they aren’t doing it, and the two of them can only roll their eyes so many times. 

“Plus, the buffet sucks,” Jacobi says. Kepler sighs. “No, sir, seriously. Nobody asked for duck liver pâté or, I don’t know, _cranberry jus and Brussels sprout purée.”_

“Cutter did,” Kepler says. “Probably. Did you taste them, though? You’ll never know if you like things when you never bother to actually _try_ them, Jacobi.”

“He was distracted. They had a whole selection of cheeses,” Maxwell says.

Kepler sighs. “Of course they did.”

Jacobi opens his mouth to argue in defence of the brie he’d found there and considered stealing the rest of, but decides, ultimately, that Kepler won’t listen and Maxwell will force herself to look like she’s considering murdering him with her bare hands, and it isn’t worth it. Plus, he’d class leaving it as his one charitable act for the year, since the quality of it can make up for the tragedy of the gruyere he’d found there. 

Someone across the room laughs loudly enough to drown out the ‘holiday’ music that’s been softly playing underneath all night - Jacobi’s fairly sure that there was a panic before the start of the party to add anything that wasn’t Christmas related, and the playlist is shit. Genuinely shit. Kepler looks pained in the silence before conversation picks up again. 

“Hey, Major,” Maxwell says as she nods towards the door, “can we bounce?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Pretty please,” Jacobi says, “with a cherry on top?”

“Absolutely not.”

_“Why?”_

“Because,” Kepler says, “you’ve barely made an appearance. Because what else do you have to do on a _lovely_ evening like this?”

 _It’s eleven-thirty,_ Jacobi thinks. 

“I wanted to go to McDonalds,” Maxwell mumbles. 

“Jesus Christ,” Kepler says. 

So - he’s disappointed, but not surprised, which is pretty par for the course when he expects them to act as though they belong when he forces them along to higher-class events than college frat parties. He gives Jacobi a look that’s almost pleading. 

“Jacobi,” he says, and Jacobi thinks _oh no,_ “would _you_ say that you’re having a good time?”

Ignoring Maxwell mouthing _no!_ desperately at him, Jacobi sucks in a deep breath before sharply exhaling. “I. Well, sir, you see, the thing is –“

“You know what,” Kepler says, “don’t even try and tell me you’re having a good time. Don’t even bother. I know you don’t want to be here.”

Jacobi and Maxwell share a look. _Obviously,_ it says, considering they’d spent fifteen minutes trying to find an acceptable lie for Kepler so he would let them go home. If he hadn’t known they didn’t want to go, they’d have had to worry about him more than they already do, considering everything about him. 

“So can we go?” Maxwell asks.

“No. Not until twelve, at least.”

_“Sir.”_

“If you’re both leaving, I’m leaving,” Kepler says, “and Mr. Cutter said he wanted to make sure he saw me here, so I need to go and _actively_ hunt him out, now.”

Jacobi frowns. “I thought you liked these parties,” he says. 

Kepler almost scoffs, turning his face aside at the last moment. “I like parties,” he says. “Just not this one. Do you know how many of these I’ve been to? How many times have I done this _exact_ song and dance?”

“More than six,” Maxwell guesses. 

“More than six,” he nods. “We’re leaving at twelve. Be ready.”

They watch him eye the groups for a moment before he squares his shoulders again and walks, purposefully, into the room while they stay at the spot they’ve claimed by the wall and have been glaring at passing acquaintances who’ve tried to strike up conversations with them. 

“Can you imagine being Kepler?” Maxwell asks. 

“I’d gouge my own eyes out,” Jacobi says. 

“Yeah,” she says. “Fuck, who wouldn’t.”

Apparently, Warren Kepler wouldn't. 

* * *

Kepler meets back with them at eleven-fifty-seven which Jacobi knows because he was keeping an eye on his watch and because Maxwell had been announcing, as twelve drew nearer, that she was leaving as soon as the hour ticked over, no matter whether Kepler had returned or not. 

“You look like you’ve had a good time,” Jacobi says, gesturing vaguely in the direction of Kepler’s suit, cuffs now covered with glitter that’s sticking to what could be red wine. He smells like perfume and there’s a fluff-topped pen sticking out of his pocket with a Santa hat attached to the top with a spring. There might be lipstick on his cheek.

“Jacobi,” Kepler says, fake smile a mile wide, “kindly shut the _fuck_ up.”

Jacobi shuts up. Maxwell snickers and turns it into a cough when Kepler turns the smile on her before nodding towards the door. It’s as good a prompt as any, and they don’t bother saying goodbye to anyone as they head for the elevator, Maxwell letting her head fall back against the mirror as soon as the doors shut behind them. 

Silently, Kepler gives her a look and she sighs, closing her eyes and folding her arms. 

“Maxwell,” he says.

“I’ve been wearing heels for three hours,” she says. “Don’t you dare.”

Kepler glances down at her feet. “Huh,” he says. “So you have. Why?”

“Again, Gibson.”

“You should really stop listening to him,” Jacobi says. “I think he hates you.”

“I got that, thanks.”

“Gibson the… biologist?”

Maxwell waves her hand in the air. _Sort of._ “He works in prosthetics.”

Kepler hums as the elevator doors open again and the three of them make their way towards the parking lot, where Kepler’s car sits on the other side to all the others as though there was some sort of forcefield around it. 

“Weren’t you drinking?”

“Unfortunately, no,” he says. “Mostly because the best thing they had was a white that didn’t actually go with half the food, and because I thought one of you would end up drunk and need a ride.”

“Major,” Maxwell says, “I’m really hurt by your total lack of faith in us to act like real adults.”

Kepler pauses with his hand on the handle to the driver’s seat, Maxwell and Jacobi on the other side at the back. “Jacobi ate a glorified cheese and ham sandwich and you ate dessert. In fact, you ate four and a half different kinds of dessert.”

“Yeah, that’s why I wanted to go to _McDonalds.”_

“Get in the car,” Kepler says, but there’s a tiny lift in his voice that makes it sound like he’s trying not to smile. 

Kepler’s driving is good on any normal day, abysmal and subject to break fifty traffic laws when he’s ranting about something or ‘evading pursuit’ (through means Jacobi and Maxwell have divined as ‘making the other guys so nauseous they drive into a tree at the side of the road), and likely to follow every single law to the letter when he’s feeling petty or trying to drive home a point about something. He has the nicer car out of the three of them, though, which is why he does it so often. 

He turns the heater on as soon as the car’s started, pausing a moment to strip off his jacket – having thrown the pen in Jacobi’s general direction without warning, who’s now scrambling to find it on the floor – and to give a mournful look to the sleeves before he folds it and sits it on the other seat. 

“A hundred dollars,” Kepler says. “Absolutely ruined.”

 _What happened,_ Jacobi wants to ask and knows Maxwell wants him to ask. “Yikes,” he says instead. “That sucks.”

“I _liked_ that suit,” Kepler says. It’s as close to whining as he’ll allow himself to get. “If I could prove it was on purpose…”

The visceral threat, he leaves unsaid. It narrows the suspects down, at least, and serves as a warning that Kepler’s going to stew about it for at least another few days, which means he’ll _definitely_ make a point of glaring at whoever did it. Workplace drama is Jacobi’s favorite kind of entertainment. 

“Can’t you get it dry-cleaned?” Maxwell asks, sounding as innocent as she can while Kepler pulls out of the lot and takes a left before he glares at her in the mirror. “What? Genuine question!”

“No it isn’t,” Kepler says. “Are you trying to piss me off?”

“Yes.”

“I _will_ leave you here.”

“Hey, boss,” Jacobi says, leaning forwards, “where are you going? Our apartments are the other way.”

“Maybe we’re going to my place.”

“We’ve been to your place. It’s the other way.”

“You’ve been to the place I stay _right now,”_ Kepler says. Jacobi briefly considers the merits of kicking the back of his seat as the car falls back into silence until Maxwell starts laughing. 

“Holy shit,” she says, “I take back what I said about trying to get you mad. You’re the best boss ever.”

“I know,” Kepler says, smug as the cat that got the cream, switching on the turn signal and pulling in behind another few cars. “Jacobi, you want anything?”

“Double cheeseburger and fries,” he says. “And a strawberry shake. Please and thank you, sir.”

“Maxwell?”

“Big Mac,” she says. “Large fries. Coke. Major. Sir. Best boss in the world.”

Kepler dutifully relays their orders and pauses for a second. “Actually,” he says, “can you add some nuggets to that? Thank you. Barbecue sauce. And another coke. _Thanks.”_

Any time they eat in his car he threatens to eviscerate them and turn their entrails into the entree for a dinner party he’ll host for everyone they know, so Kepler pulls up outside Maxwell’s apartment and carries the drinks while Jacobi holds the food and Maxwell unlocks the door, the three of them dropping onto her couch with a groan in Jacobi’s case, a sigh in Maxwell’s, and a moment where he closes his eyes and actually relaxes in Kepler’s. 

“You know,” he says, reaching over to steal one of Maxwell’s fries and ignoring the death glare he sends her (and Jacobi taking her distraction as an opportunity to do the same), “it’s really just _so_ tragic that we won’t be able to make it to the party next year.”

Jacobi freezes. Maxwell gasps, then coughs to try and hide her joy. “We won’t?”

“No,” Kepler says. “Heartbreaking news, really. It’s just that we’re going to be _so_ busy with a mission that day.”

“What day?” Jacobi asks. 

“Every day for the entire month of December,” Kepler says. “Shame.”

“Doing what?”

“Oh, y’know. Mission things. The usual.” Kepler waves a hand in the air. “Top secret, need to know, you understand.”

“Of course,” Jacobi says, voice flat as it could possibly be. “I’m so upset, sir, I think I might cry.”

“I know,” Kepler says. “It can’t be helped, though. Because we wouldn’t ever _want_ to miss a holiday party, you understand, but… extenuating circumstances exist. I’m sure Mr. Cutter will understand.”

“This is the best present you’ve ever given us,” Maxwell says. Kepler smiles - a small thing, fleeting, but there. 

“Happy holidays,” he says. 


End file.
